


Sex doesn't solve it, Sherlock.

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Awkward Kissing, Bad Decisions, Denial of Feelings, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drunken Confessions, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, John in Denial About His Sexuality, M/M, Multi, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft is bad at love, POV Second Person, Past Relationship(s), Porn with Feelings, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5643073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loving Mycroft Holmes is hard when he seems so indifferent. A passionate exchange with Sherlock turns into your only release from love induced agony, meanwhile John struggles with some feelings of his own.<br/>(Reader doesn't have a specified gender)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock is pressing hot kisses down your neck, along your collarbones, further down till he's onto your chest. The heat is immeasurable, being pressed against the wall as genius detective runs his hands all over you. You gasp as his hot tongue flicks across your hardened nub, sucking hard after a moment. Your hands go to his hair, tugging roughly as you grind against him. Passionate lust surges through both of you, desperate for release. Sherlock grunts, desperately fighting back the need to tear your clothes off and take you. You swear under your breath as he bites you, a hand sliding into your underwear, his finger pressing into you roughly. His finger works in and out of you quickly, giving little consideration to your ability to take it. You find yourself completely under his power. His mouth smothers yours, thrusting his tongue into your mouth desperately. Both of you moan as he forces another finger into you, your tightness squeezing around them. You can feel your wetness soaking his hand, dripping down your inner thighs like water. After a few thrusts, he tears his hand out of your underwear and you curse with frustration, but he ignores your protests. He sets about struggling with his belt and tearing it off, tugging his trousers and boxers down before he's back onto you. His mouth smashes into yours again as he shakily guides himself to your slit. With one quick movement he fucks into you, making you both gasp into each others mouths. He slams his hand against the wall beside your head as he swears, other hand holding your hips into place with an iron grip. You yank his curls, digging your nails into the shoulder of his coat, panting like a bitch in heat.  
He's merciless with his thrusts, slamming you into the wall with each one. You open your eyes to look at him - sweat beading on his brow from the exertion, eyes squeezed tight in overwhelming pleasure, lips parted in an endless stream of sound. You moan loudly at the sight, seeing such a man taking pleasure in you. Your eyes roll shut as he orgasms, spilling jets of hot seed deep into you. The sensation sends you spiralling over the edge after him;  
"Mycroft!!" you scream as white light burns your senses.

When you come back to your senses, you're sat on the floor, panting heavily. Sherlock is across the room from you, slumped on the sofa with his head against the wall. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, he too coming down from the euphoria. After a few moments, you retrieve your underwear and head off to the bathroom. Once there, you clean yourself up and fix your hair, redressing. By the time you re-emerge, Sherlock has removed his coat and fixed his hair.  
"Tea." He demands without even a glance in your direction. He has perched himself in his armchair, unfocused as he thinks deeply, mind back on the case. You shift to the kitchen and find the kettle already boiled. You pull out two cups from the cupboard, but then a third when you hear the front door open. The familiar footsteps of John Watson make their way up to the flat and by the time he's pushing the door open, you're pouring tea into each cup.  
"Hello." he greets breathlessly.  
"Welcome back, John. Tea?" you reply, pressing his cup into his hand.  
"Oh, yes, thank you." you smile at him warmly as you turn to place Sherlock's tea in front of him. Sherlock makes no move to take it, but gives a single nod in thanks. You then return to your own tea and take a sip.  
"Has he been like this since I left?" John asks, gesturing to Sherlock.  
"Mm. Hasn't moved." you tell him, both of you gazing at the man in question. John tuts disapprovingly and sips his tea.  
"And how are you?" he turns his attention back to you.  
"Fine. Just... fine, really. You?"  
"Alright, yeah."  
The conversation dies off as you both have nothing more to say. John runs his hand down his jeans nervously, and you down the rest of your tea.  
"I best be off then. See you later." you announce, slipping your coat on and moving towards the door.  
"Bye." John nods at you and you smile before leaving the flat.

You step out into the mild mid-morning London air. The sound of cars and people fill your head, a much welcome noise after the silence of the flat. You pick up a brisk stride down the street toward the main road. With no real plans for the day, you make a quick decision to find something to eat. Just at the thought, your stomach groans with agreement. The last time you had eaten had been yesterday lunch time. Up until then it had been a normal day, then Sherlock had texted you about a case. Unravelling crimes does have a habit of lessening your appetite. The truth is that you're a little bit too soft to investigate murders. The concept of eating while unravelling the truth about why someone else no longer gets to, is not a pleasant one. It was probably a good thing too, since neither Sherlock nor John took time to stop for a snack. It's funny, up until a year ago, you had never considered a hobby in detective work. You had been working in a café while studying in university, until it turned out the café was a drug den. That was when you had first met Sherlock Holmes and, by extension, John Watson. One of your colleagues had gone missing and you had reported it, turns out they had been killed. A brief case to uncover the underground drug ring and several related murders later, and you were jobless. You had also discovered your ability to observe things others overlook. Even Sherlock Holmes himself had been surprised at your talents. By your efforts combined, the three of you found the ringleader together. That should have been the last time you saw Sherlock, but John had taken a fancy to you and became your boyfriend. Of course, like John's other relationships, it didn't work out. It had been a disagreement on war that finally separated you after three months. However, by that time Sherlock considered you invaluable to his work and demanded you stay around. As for sleeping with Sherlock, that was a recent development.

You step into your most frequented café and make your way to the counter. There you order a drink and a sandwich, making small talk with the serving girl. Once you've paid, you take a seat right in the back of the establishment. You're just about to start the second half of your sandwich, when your phone buzzes. Setting your sandwich down, you pull your phone out of your pocket and draw a letter M on the screen, which unlocks it. New message from Mycroft Holmes, you open it;  
_Enjoying your sandwiches?_  
You look up from your phone to see him standing outside the café window, giving you a placid smile. Suddenly, your appetite disappears.  
_I was._ you message back, before standing up and pushing your chair in. You nod at the serving girl as you pass and exit through the door. Mycroft moves towards you with an expectant expression. You sigh.  
"I'm certain you don't want me to pass information on your _brother dearest_ in the middle of a busy street, Mr Holmes." you point out.  
"You're quite right." he agrees, "shall we take a walk?"  
Knowing you have no other option, you nod. Seeing your agreement, Mycroft begins to walk in the direction of a nearby park and you follow. Suddenly, you begin to worry about the way you look. You slept on Sherlock's sofa last night, so you were wearing yesterdays clothes and you hadn't showered yet. Not to mention you'd just had sex, clothed too, so you probably stink. A frown made it's way onto your face. There was no way Mycroft would be attracted to you in this state.

But then again, why would Mycroft be attracted to you in any state? He likely cared little for appearances, but he certainly thought a lot about intelligence. You were a tool to Mycroft and always would be. Another idiot barely scraping the tip of his superior intellect. That didn't stop you falling head over heels for him the moment you met. It wasn't long after your relationship with John had ended. Of course, you'd heard about Mycroft many times, but you'd never met the man. Once it had become apparent you'd still be around, Mycroft had taken the liberty of 'kidnapping' you to talk. There, he had threatened you and then offered you money in exchange for information. It was then that it had clicked in your head who he was.  
"Ooh!" you exclaimed, realisation flooding your features. "You must be Mycroft."  
He had been surprised at your deduction, but came clean. You'd then agreed to help him as you also cared about Sherlock, and it was also a good way to ensure continued contact. Something about him had just drawn you to him and that attraction had never shifted. No matter what state you saw him in, the affections remained just the same. You were sweet on him, and every time he showed up you felt weak at the knees.  
Obviously, Sherlock had realised you were attracted to his brother. It took him a lot longer than you'd expected. Around two months ago, you had arrived at 221B to find Mycroft there. He appeared to be having a semi-heated conversation with Sherlock about your most recent case. Upon entering the room, he'd turned to you and fixed you with an intense and heated stare. You had found yourself blushing furiously and blinking rapidly, turning your face away from his gaze. That was a mistake, your eyes immediately meeting Sherlock's. His lips twitched with amusement and you knew you'd been caught. You prayed that Mycroft hadn't realised it, too.

It was this reveal of your feelings that had started your sexual relationship with Sherlock. Seeing how Mycroft aroused you, Sherlock had made an advance of his own. Both of you were healthy adults, even if a certain consulting detective tried to hide it, and that meant an arrangement could be made. You would help each other release sexual tensions, but it had to be kept secret. Sherlock enjoyed sex but he struggled to find someone he could trust, but now he could trust you. You needed some kind of release, and what better way to do it than fuck the brother of the man you love? After all, it's not like Mycroft would ever return your feelings. You were well aware that just like you were thinking of Mycroft, Sherlock was thinking of someone else. Who it was, you had no idea. A few times, he had almost said their name in the heat of the moment, but he never quite did. Whomever it was, Sherlock himself didn't seem to want to admit it.  
"So, any new developments I should know about?" Mycroft's voice interrupts your thoughts.  
"He's working on a case right now, art theft. Not dangerous." you explain.  
"Shouldn't you be assisting?"  
"John is there. Besides, he's in his mind palace."  
"Ah. He'll call you when he needs you."  
" _if_ he needs me, he doesn't always." you remark, and silence falls between you. You observe a couple walking past, hand in hand, and your stomach churns. If only Mycroft actually liked you back, you would take his hand too. Suddenly, you found yourself wishing that you didn't love such a complicated man. A simpler person, like John, would just tell you whether or not they actually liked you, but not Mycroft. Even if by some crazy circumstance he does like you, you know he'd never let you know.

A buzzing in your pocket drags you out of your musing, again, and you pull out your phone. You angle it away from Mycroft as you swish in your M and open your text message;  
_Gallery._  
"Sorry, Mr Holmes." you apologise as you turn to the direction of the main road. "I've got to go."  
"Do take care." he replies, and it sends your head funny.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a rough few days. There was really only so much murder you could take in a week. That's why you were now sat on your sofa, a glass of alcohol in your hand and John beside you, equally decked out with booze. The soft sound of the radio playing in the background made for solemn drinking. Hours had passed since you'd had your first glass and now you were on your fifth. John seemed to be half-way between coherent and totally out of it. After the end of your relationship, neither of you really knew what to say to each other. The breakup had been a strange one. It left many unanswered questions hovering over you both, making it hard to communicate outside of cases. This being said, John was a man you'd trust with your life. Why else would you both get piss balls drunk together after difficult cases?  
You slid across slightly and rested your head on his shoulder. The booze was definitely going to your head now, and your words tumble out as more of a slur than anything;  
"Why'd we not work, huh?" John clears his throat, dizzily blinking as he struggles to comprehend and focus.  
"Iunno. Somethin' 'bout... somethin'." he slurs back, stumbling on his own words.  
"I wish it weren't so messed." you sigh, rolling off his shoulder clumsily and flopping backwards. The music seemes to get louder suddenly, but it was most likely a result of the silence. For a while, you just lay there drunkenly thinking about your relationships. Between breaking up with John, sleeping with Sherlock and struggling with Mycroft, your heart was poached.

An overwhelming sense of loneliness drags you down further. Look at yourself - hopelessly drunk with your ex-boyfriend, hours after celebration sex with his best friend, all while you were thinking of his elder brother. What a wonderful way your life had turned out. It was all supposed to be so simple. Finish education, get a job, meet someone, get married, have kids... how did you get here. Without thinking about it, you throw your half-full glass across the room. It hits the wall and shatters, liquid and glass flying everywhere. John swears somewhere nearby, and he pulls you to him in an embrace. You wrap your arms tightly around him and sob dryly. The room is a water blotched landscape that exists externally from your agony, John's presence being the only thing tying you to it. Your fingers find their way to his hair, your other hand gripping a fistful of his shirt as if your life depended on it. You were sinking and John was there to keep you afloat.  
"I love you!" you cry out desperately, but you're not even sure who those words are meant for. John's fingers tangle in your shirt and his lips find yours. All at once, all you can feel is John, the world slipping away. The kiss is sloppy and messy, lasting only a few moments before he pulls away. Desperately, you whisper for him to come back.  
"I'm gay." he chokes, tears rushing down his cheeks. "I'm in love with Sherlock." You pull back so you can look at his face clearly. Then it all makes sense. The looks, the arguments, the sex.

Horrible sickness grips you, and you push John away. You know what's coming and where you have to go. Somehow, you manage to stand up and stagger your way to the bathroom. Once there, you stumble to your knees in front of the toilet and vomit.

\--

The next day is even worse. Your whole body feels like lead and everything crashes down around you. Everything felt so much worse than it had last night. You had passed out in the bathroom. Desperate to at least shift the headache, you climb into the shower and cleanse yourself. The icy cold water helps somewhat. As you get out, you realise there isn't towel, which means you walk back to your bedroom naked and covered in cold droplets. John groans from the couch, obviously having passed out there the night before. You close your bedroom door and get dressed. Just as you're pulling on your shoes, planning to head across the street to get a bacon sandwich for you and John, your phone rings. Scooping it up, you groan as you see Sherlock's calling.  
"Is John there?" his familiar voice queries down the line.  
"Why didn't you tell me?" you ask, heart aching too much to care about tiptoeing.  
" _What_?"  
"You and John. Why didn't you just _tell me_?"  
Sherlock pauses, uncomfortable with the topic and even more so with how hurt you sound.  
"I wasn't always thinking about John." he replies slowly, tentatively. He was the one tiptoeing now. You sigh heavily and take the phone away from your ear, cutting off the call. You toss your phone across the bed and bury your face in your hands.

It wasn't that you minded Sherlock thinking of someone else. It wasn't like you were thinking about him. What you really minded was that he was thinking about John. Sherlock could _have_ John. All he had to do was tell him how he feels. It's not the same for you. You can't just walk up to Mycroft fucking Holmes and say how you feel. He'd just laugh at you. Or worse, apologise. You'd rather that none of this ever happened. That you'd never worked in that café, never dated John, never met Mycroft, never got tangled in this mess. Anger bubbles up inside of you. But you're not angry at Sherlock or John or Mycroft. You're angry at yourself. Hot tears of rage pool into your palms, which only makes you angrier.  
John's heavy footsteps making their way to the bathroom tears you back to reality. You drag a violent hand across your eyes, wiping away your tears. You finish off putting on your shoes and hurry out of the house.  
The sound of cars and people normally comforted you, made your problems feel so small. Today, they made you feel hopeless. You cross the street and step into the breakfast café. There's a couple just ahead of you, ordering coffee on the go. The man is a few years older than his partner, smiling down at her with eyes that twinkle with adoration. Your heart throbs with longing. If only Mycroft wasn't so unreachable, that maybe he could look at you that way... even if he was thinking about someone else.

With two bacon sandwiches in hand, you head back to your house and enter your lounge. John is understandably nursing his hangover.  
"Here." you say, passing him his sandwich. He smiles weakly at you in gratitude and unwraps it. He takes a large bite and groans happily around his mouthful.  
"Oooh, just what I needed. You're a saint." he declares and you flop down beside him on the sofa.  
"You need to tell Sherlock how you feel." you necessitated. John was half-way between swallowing as you did, making him choke.  
"Jesus!" he exclaims "Couldn't you have waited?"  
"No." the ex-military man sighs, setting his sandwich aside and rubbing his temples.  
"You're right." he admits mournfully. "I'll go."  
"Good."  
The conversation dies off there and you return to your sandwich. John, on the other hand, doesn't take another bite. After a few minutes, he hands you his sandwich and leaves to go see Sherlock.


End file.
